


Temptation

by RudeNNotGinger



Series: Phoenix Rising [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Ableism, Backstory, Blood Magic, Gender Dysphoria, Mage Self-hatred, Other, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Trans Male Inquisitor, Trans Male Trevelyan, deadnaming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-22
Updated: 2017-05-22
Packaged: 2018-11-03 12:45:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10967517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RudeNNotGinger/pseuds/RudeNNotGinger
Summary: The future Inquisitor Phoenix Trevelyan, at his Harrowing ceremony in the Ostwick Circle. As a desire demon in the Fade reveals, more lies beneath the surface of young Phoebe Trevelyan. This is one version of Phoenix's backstory that I'm playing with. Phoenix does eventually come out and start living as his true self, but when he's an 18 year old initiate in the Ostwick Circle, he's very much in the closet and in conflict. Warnings in the tags.





	Temptation

_9:37 Dragon, the Ostwick Circle Tower_

 ---------------------------------------------

Phoebe Trevelyan stares at the iridescent periwinkle basin in the center of the room, held aloft by a painstakingly forged metal stand.

“Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him…”

Her thoughts drift, as her gaze does from the eyes of First Enchanter, to Senior Enchanter Lydia, to the Templar reciting the ceremonial words, back to the blue-white lyrium lying placidly in the bowl, and then to scanning the intricate handiwork that went into the basin’s construction. _Is it blue vitriol, or lazurite?_

“Your magic is a gift, but it’s also a curse…”

 _Could it be paragon_ _’s luster, gleaming to reflect the indigo light in the room?_

“This ritual sends you into the Fade, and there you will face a demon, armed will only your will…”

 _Maker, they can_ _’t very well have done that, paragon_ _’s luster is rare in these parts_   _…_

“If you fail, we Templars will perform our duty. You will die.”

She blinks, her awareness yanked back into the moment, this room, the basin of lyrium in the center….

“Keep your wits about you, and remember that the Fade is a realm of dreams.”

She reaches a tan hand, hovers it over the ghostly substance, and in an instant a ball of light crashes up from the liquid and into her palm, infusing it with a blue-white glow. The light expands and explodes, enveloping her and whiting out her vision.

After a few seconds, the huge effulgent ball dissipates, the brightness fading to reveal an expanse of forest around her. Tall, elder beings of oak spread their green leafy canopies, each entangling their twig fingers with those from other ancient wooden brethren. A huge ball of tangerine light radiates in the distance, the horizon from which it rose mostly obscured by thickly crowd of tree sentinels.

“Hello, Lord Trevelyan.”

The voice behind her is a soft tenor: glabrous, honeyed, and Maker, it sounds incredibly _inviting._ Her ears perk, catching on the hooks of the honorific in its address. _Lord Trevelyan?_ Certainly it must be mistaken….

Slowly she turns around and finds a man standing where the voice had sounded. He is about a half-hand taller than her, wearing the same bronze skin, deep amber eyes, wide flattened nose and full, thick lips as her. Nearly the same halo of curly black hair that emerged from her scalp and flowed down her neck also erupts from his, except his was pulled into a neat ponytail at the nape of his neck. He is lithe, yet she can make out the curves and planes of his muscles underneath the deep lavender tunic he wears. Gold trim that lines the garment’s hems is echoed on the shirt’s neckline, swirling itself into elegant curliques on its high collar.

 _Andraste_ _’s flaming knickers. This man is fucking gorgeous._

Phoebe feels an uneasiness vibrating inside her chest, especially when her glance dances over his features again. Which, she notes for the second time, are nearly identical to her own.

“Um…hello,” she mumbles, staring at the stranger. “And you would be…”

“A friend. I hope.” His answer is cryptic, a tad syrupy in tone. “And I may be your best way out of here.”

Phoebe bites her lip and plays with a loose obsidian curl near one of her temples. She’s got to get out of here, and she doesn’t know who or what is real.

“Alright,” she assents. “But if you’re putting me on, I’ll deal with you, and it won’t be pretty.”

“I would expect no less from a mage undergoing his Harrowing, and trying to survive his trip into the Fade.” He starts to forge ahead and, hesitatingly, Phoebe begins to follow. Again, her brain hitches on the being’s incorrect choice of pronouns. _Are spirits that daft that they can_ _’t recognize a woman when they see one?_

Yet, she can’t help but notice that something inside her chest melts into a calm warmth at the mistaken addresses. _Lord. His._ Just as quickly as she feels it, her chest tightens and aches while she tries to swallow a rigid lump that has formed in her throat, keeping silent as she walks with the stranger.

 _Now Phoebe, you should really stop wearing those clothes and act like a proper young lady_. The sentence floats up from out of nowhere in her mind, a sticky thing with razor edges that catch on the full plum drumming in the center of her being. A fast flash of Phoebe’s mother, her lips drawn into a thin line as she folds fat broad arms across her chest. _You_ _’re thirteen years old. You_ _’re going to be a woman before you know it._

Phoebe’s stomach lurches, as if a sea of inky sorrow churns inside of it.

_The townsfolk have been talking about you, and not all of it are kind words, Phoebe._

The young mage feels her jaw tighten. _Maker_ _’s balls, who cares what the bloody fucking townspeople think?_

 _Language, young lady! And it_ _’s not just the townsfolk._ Deep lines etch the woman’s forehead. _Some of the other noble families have spoken ill of you as well_.

The growl gurgles and issues from her younger self’s throat. _Why do they care, Mother? It_ _’s not like I_ _’m Evelyn or Maxwell and I_ _’m an actual bloody heir. Not like I_ _’ve got to marry some fancy-pants cheesemonger._

She can feel her eyelids halfway shut, the skin crinkle around her eyes as if she is still back there, standing in her bedroom. Her next words are a carefully formed dagger, aimed at whatever soft part in her mother that she can find to hurt. _Besides, you_ _’re sending me away to the Circle tomorrow. Remember?_

A rich, decadent golden beam of light breaks through her sight, spilling into a huge, round pool on the carpet of greenery in a clearing just ahead.

“You have not spoken much, young man,” the being beside her says.

Phoebe instantly stamps to a halt, grabs the being by the shoulder and spins him around to face her. “You bloody stop that shite right now! Do you fucking hear me?”

He raises one dark eyebrow. She watches it arch into a question. “How have I offended you, Ser Trevelyan?”

“You keep calling me ‘Lord’ and ‘he.’ I’ll kindly ask you to stop that at once.”

The creature tilts his head. “Is it offensive for you to hear…or something else?” His lips quirk into an easy smile. “Painful, perhaps?”

“ _Fuck you_ ,” she growls. “You know nothing of my pain, creature.”

“Then why don’t you tell me?” The smile fades from his lips.

“Do you think I bloody fucking asked for this?” Phoebe screeches, waving her arms. “I didn’t ask to be a girl and I didn’t ask to have this fucking magic! If I wouldn’t turn into some mindless twit incapable of feeling a damned thing, I’d have picked Tranquility.” Her teeth clench. “At least I’d not have to worry about being a ‘proper young lady’—” Her tone turns into a nasal, sharp sneer as she wrinkles her nose in disgust. “Or some dangerous thing to be feared and hated.”

The being smiles. “I might be able to solve one of those problems.”

Phoebe huffs. “Yeah, right, and I’m blessed Andraste herself.”

“No, I am serious,” the being continues, then sweeps over his own face with a quick gesture of his right hand. “Have you not noticed how my looks resemble your own?”

Phoebe folds her arms across her chest and glares. “Yeah, and it’s Maker-damned creepy and I wish you’d _stop._ ”

“Maybe you can’t stand it because you know it’s what you really _want._ ”

Phoebe draws in a deep breath and lets it out in a loud, long snort. Her glance is pulled away from the creature’s face and drifts down to her lustrous wine-hued robes, trimmed in the gold embroidery that was characteristic of members of the Ostwick circle.

“Look at me.”

Phoebe’s gaze settles on him. She complies, yet a burning prickle of anger sits in her neck, throat, and bosom.

“Perhaps it is best you stop denying who you are. You won’t be able to hide from your mother and your father, the ever-so-righteous, illustrious Bann Trevelyan.”

Her lips quirk, and she rolls her eyes. “C’mon. No magic in the world would change me into a man, save maybe blood magic, and I’m _not_ fucking going near the stuff.”

“I am not suggesting you slit throats here,” he replies. “But consider: you’re in the Fade, away from the eyes of those who watch you. Why hide this innermost longing of yourself here? What use is it to pretend, _Lord_ Trevelyan?”

She sighs. The being _is_ correct, in a way. She had decided that it didn’t matter: she was going to live in the Circle for the rest of her life and no one would bloody care what she was, except that she was a mage and had to be watched.

“I can offer a choice. A chance.”

Now her eyebrow lifts, and she peers at the being curiously.

“Allow me to dwell within you.” His voice is almost a murmur. “I can shape you in ways you cannot possibly fathom. At the very least, make being in your body easier to bear.”

Phoebe swallows another lump. _Could it be real?_ Small salty drops form at the corners of her eyes, but she quickly blinks them away as fire sears up through her core. It reaches her face, twisting her lips into a snarl and narrowing her eyes to slits.

“Go fuck yourself, _demon_ ,” she hisses.

Instantly, her masculine doppelganger shifts into a large, thistle-colored thing with horns. It towers over her, a scythe-shaped sinister grin on its lips. “Well chosen, _mage_ ,” it taunts. “Your trial with me has ended. But you have more trials ahead of you, and they are just beginning, _Lord Trevelyan_.”

The forest—and the demon—disappears. The ritual room pops back into Phoebe’s view. Only a few seconds later does she realize that she’s screaming.

“Phoebe!” the Grand Enchanter shouts, shaking the young mage with one of her tiny hands. “Phoebe, say something!”

“Wha—” She sits up quickly, then blinks. “I…I’m here. In the tower, yeah?”

A soft smile crosses the older brown woman’s lips. “You made it,” she breathes. “I knew you would.”

Phoebe’s fingers flutter to her forehead. Glancing around, she sees the Templars eye her cautiously. “I’m alright,” she assures, then reaches up a hand which the Grand Enchanter takes. “Thank the Maker, I made it.”

The older woman pulls Phoebe to her feet. “Thank the Maker, indeed. Now you need rest, my child.”

Phoebe sighs and nods. “Believe me, I _do_ need it. I’m spent.”

The Grand Enchanter pulls her along, as if she’s an animated ragdoll barely on her feet, and Phoebe meekly follows. The sight of the desire demon, wearing her face with a man’s form, remains as an afterimage in the back of her consciousness. She rapidly blinks, trying to shove the image out of her thoughts as her scraping footsteps echo throughout the Tower. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Note: I am a transgender man myself. Phoenix is one of my Inquisitors whom I headcanon as a trans male. 
> 
> This fic was partially inspired by a scene in "The Demands of Good Men" by hoboshorts (http://archiveofourown.org/works/2742680/chapters/6147869). That author conjectured that when Dorian's describing the desire demon in the fade if he's with the Inquisitor at Adamant during "Here Lies the Abyss," the demon is likely tempting him by being a beautiful and playing with Dorian's emotions (and the whole ball of wax with his sexuality and his family's disapproval.) I went with a similar idea that pre-transition Phoenix (Phoebe) is likely being tempted in the same way during his own Harrowing.


End file.
